


the universal language

by badtemperedchocolate



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series)
Genre: AU, F/M, I love Kevin and I regret nothing, Music, let's just all accept, this trash life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23282698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtemperedchocolate/pseuds/badtemperedchocolate
Summary: Claire doesn't usually sing much contemporary music, but Alex Delany isn't the kind of composer who takes 'no' for an answer.
Relationships: Brad Leone & Claire Saffitz, Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 13
Kudos: 75





	the universal language

**Author's Note:**

> there’s a lot of music mentioned in this fic (hazard of the topic, I know). without laboring it, I do recommend you check out any of the songs specified by name, because a.) I love them and b.) that’ll give you a better concept of what I’m imagining.
> 
> also, Pamela South’s “The Trees on the Mountains” is my preferred version. but you do you.
> 
> anyway, thanks for indulging me.

_(overture)  
_

Claire doesn’t usually sing much contemporary music, but Alex Delany’s not the kind of composer who takes ‘no’ for an answer.

* * *

(Audition season was long past, but when her management called her to say that Alex Delany was looking for a soprano preferably a light lyric or coloratura, to stage a brand-new, folk-inspired opera, a retelling of Thumbelina, Claire immediately said _sure, I’ll audition_ and hopped a train to the studio in midtown.

She got the acceptance call that very evening, answered it with a very appropriate level of dignity and class, said _thank you_ one last time, hung up, and jumped up and down with a delighted shriek before grabbing her phone again to call her parents.)

* * *

Her first meeting with the composer and manager is surprisingly laidback. Of course, within five minutes, she discovers that ‘laidback’ is just how Alex Delany does everything. Except, maybe, his clothes. There’s no possible way he arrived at this particular combination of artfully-wrinkled buttondown and carefully distressed jeans without careful deliberation.

She can’t quite get a read on the manager just yet – he’s a little too slick to figure out – but Adam Rapoport has earned a reputation as the kind of manager who can make anything work on a shoestring budget, turn a profit, and field stellar reviews, so she’s willing to see what this is.

They’re both very welcoming, and she feels herself losing those last few jitters as the three of them sip coffee and chat amiably.

“So we’ve got great personnel,” Rapoport tells her, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Chris Morocco’s our music director – he’s fantastic – and we’ve got Kevin Dynia on piano, which will be great. Rick Martinez just came on as stage director; we stole him away from the Met, but don’t spread that around. And Rhoda Boone’s contracting our musicians, so we’ll have the best orchestra in New York.”

Delany hands her a copy of the score. She skims the character list, looks at the notes, and starts scanning the music. It’s a piano/vocal score, of course, but right there in her last aria, there’s something else marked, a line of tiny cue notes that’s obviously written for a specific instrument. But it’s just labeled _hf_ , and that’s not an abbreviation she knows. Harp, maybe? _Harfe_ is German. But it doesn’t look like a harp line.

She opens the score flat and points to the cue notes. “What instrument is that?”

“It’s a _hardingfele_ ,” Delany explains. “A Norwegian fiddle with eight strings.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”

“You know the _Lord of the Rings_ movies, yeah? Remember the kingdom of Rohan?” She nods, and Delany grins. “If you listen to the soundtrack, the Rohan theme – that’s played on a _hardingfele_. It’s a very cool sound.”

“Huh.” She knows she’s heard it, but she’d have to listen again to really remember it. “So I assume you know someone who plays one?”

“Oh, yeah. Friend of mine, actually.” Delany flicks a non-existent piece of lint off one carefully-casually-rolled-up sleeve. “He’s great. You’ll love him.”

* * *

_(act I)  
_

When the tall, scruffy guy wearing a backwards baseball cap and a faded plaid shirt shuffles into the rehearsal room, Claire would have thought he was the janitor, if not for the fiddle case he’s got slung over one shoulder.

“Delany! Heya, bud.”

“Brad!”

Delany hugs him like a friend, clapping him on the back, before he sees Claire and beckons her over. “Claire, this is my buddy Brad Leone, our fiddler. Brad, this is Claire Saffitz, our Thumbelina.”

Brad’s hand dwarfs hers; his handshake is firm and confident, his grin quick and unstudied. “Nice to meet you, Claire Saffitz.”

“You too.”

His smile is perfectly open and bright, and she can’t help returning it. He has the physical energy of a golden retriever, all shaggy and happy and ready to try anything, and even though she’s known him for all of fourteen seconds, she’s already curious about him.

* * *

She can’t help being a _little_ skeptical. Just a little.

Not that Brad seems dumb, of course. And he’s immediately, inherently likeable. But he looks, and talks, and acts so casual, so unlike the high-strung, stressed, fiercely competitive classical musicians she’s used to working with. It’s hard to imagine this big, scruffy guy in her world.

But then he tightens his bow, checks the strings, tucks the fiddle under his chin, and starts to play, and any trace of carelessness vanishes. He plays with total ease, his fingers suddenly light and nimble and careful over the strings, and he makes the fiddle sing, in a way she’s never seen before.

Delany’s standing nearby, watching as Brad plays through a few passages, and he leans over to Claire. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“Yeah.” She cocks her head. “You’re right, it’s like a fiddle, but there’s more to it.”

Alex nods. “It’s the sympathetic vibrations, those extra strings. _Such_ a cool sound. I heard him play it a couple years ago at a folk festival, and I knew I had to work it into something.”

Claire nods slowly, her eyes never leaving Brad.

( _He’s really good._ )

“Okay, okay, everyone.” Chris claps his hands, waiting for the singers around the room to pause their conversations and listen. “Let’s get started. Kevin?”

Their rehearsal accompanist comes running and slides onto the piano bench. “Hi. Yeah. I’m here.”

“Right.” Chris shrugs. “Okay. Top of Act I, please.”

* * *

Rehearsal is relatively normal, considering they now have a strange eight-stringed version of a violin to deal with.

When they hit the end and Chris finally calls dismissal, Kevin shuts his book, drops it on the piano bench beside himself, and starts playing “Closing Time.”

* * *

Claire has to hand it to Adam Rapoport: he knows how to get people interested.

In addition to the occasional writer/blogger/music critic he gets into rehearsals, Rapo gets Delany, Claire, and Brad invited to do a Q&A at the Manhattan Conservatory.

After she talks to the voice majors and gives a short masterclass, Claire sits in the back of the auditorium next to Brad, and they watch Delany preach his gospel to the composition students. Delany sits in an armchair someone has inexplicably dragged out for him. Today he’s wearing a scarf. It’s the most Delany thing he’s done so far this week, although the popped collars are so normal by now that Claire doesn’t even count those.

A starry-eyed young student wearing a shirt that says _Ask Me About My Fach_ looks up at him with wide eyes, her eyelashes fluttering. "So how would you describe your music?"

Delany sits back, steepling his fingers and looking at him pensively. "I guess - to me, music is all about the dichotomies. And in this opera, I'm trying to explore the distance between the formal and the informal. Professional and home. The concert hall, and the most personal, intimate places."

She stares at him, transfixed. "Uh-huh."

"It's a modern interpretation of the folk-inspired traditions of Bartok and Kodaly," he explains. "But using a Copland-style chamber texture, and borrowing a neo-Ravel harmonic palette."

"But how do you juxtapose the separate styles without losing their distinctiveness?" pipes up a tiny blonde oboist with a massive sheaf of staff paper in her lap and pencils tucked behind both ears.

"That's the amazing thing." Delany pauses for effect. "You _don't have to_."

The composition students coo and _aww_ and Claire has to cover her mouth with one hand.

“He’s always like this,” Brad murmurs into her ear. “I mean, yeah, he’s brilliant. But he’s also completely full of shit.”

Claire dissolves into giggles, trying to muffle it with her hands as a few of the students sitting near them turn to look. Oh. Oops.

Delany keeps talking, of course. "Imagine the delicacy of Satie's _Gymnopédies_ , the richness of Dvorák, and the earnest, pentatonic melodic devices of early Appalachian hymnody."

She bites her lip, staring up at the ceiling. Alex Delany is an absolute mystery sometimes.

* * *

Once Delany gets that out of his system, the questions turn more towards orchestration.

“What about the Norwegian fiddle? The – what’s it called?” one of the students pipes up, and Alex brightens.

“ _Hardingfele_. Yeah, hey – Brad? Brad, where are you, buddy? C’mon up here.”

Brad hesitates beside Claire, his body language suddenly tense, like he wants to just ignore it. Claire pokes his arm. “Go up there.”

Brad fixes her with a sheepish look. “What the hell do _I_ know? No one here wants to hear some fuckin’ carpenter talk about fiddle tunes.”

“ _Brad_.” She pushes him towards the stage, although he’s a foot taller than her and it’s mostly in vain. “Go.”

He sighs, but finally obliges, striding across the stage, grabbing a rickety metal folding chair and settling himself next to Delany. “I’m here.”

“Great!” Delany rubs his hands together. “This is Brad Leone, everyone. Good friend of mine. I wrote this part for him. So what do you want to know?”

There’s a long pause, and Claire holds her breath as Brad starts looking profoundly uncomfortable, but then the blonde with the ear-pencils raises her hand. “Do you play other instruments too?”

“I play normal fiddle, too,” he explains. “Started with that when I was a little kid. And fiddle and mandolin have the same strings, so I picked up mandolin in high school, too. And a little keyboard.”

She blinks. “Seriously? You play all those?”

“Well, and guitar, too. But just in my band, when we need another guitar.” Brad shuffles his feet. “I started out in woodworking, remodeling, that kinda thing. Worked with a luthier for a while, too. So I can do some minor repair work on my fiddles and mandolin myself, which is nice.”

The girl grins. “Wow.”

A boy wearing his saxophone harness over a garish Hawaiian shirt raises his hand. “So can you read music?”

“Kinda,” Brad says. “I mean, I grew up playing by ear. But later on I realized there was new stuff I wanted to figure out, so I started reading. I’m better by ear, but I can pick things up from the page. Takes me a few tries, but I get there.”

Another girl frowns, tilting her head. “When you say ‘by ear’ – how long does _that_ take you?”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean, like, do you have to transcribe it?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “I just listen to stuff and play it, y’know? It started with trial and error when I was a kid. And eventually, it was a lot less error. Now I can play pretty much anything I hear.”

Claire tilts her head, looking at him curiously. How many friends did she have who slaved over their ear training classwork in college, trying desperately to master that exact skill? And here’s this guy who never bothered with fancy college courses. Just taught himself. Like it wasn’t even hard.

“Folk musicians are some of the best players I’ve ever worked with,” Alex tells the group. “Think about it. You guys work incredibly hard, you really work, you learn your craft. And so do they! But the great thing about folk music is how organic it is. There’s this whole world of music that’s deeply connected to all these different cultures, and it’s all transmitted one-on-one, person-to-person. And there’s something really powerful about that.”

“Yeah, y’know –” Brad sits back, folding his arms – “the whole reason I play _hardinger_ – when I was a little kid, we lived next door to this old Norwegian couple, Bjarne and Marit Bergqvist. Nicest people ever, oh my God, the sweetest. My folks would send me over to rake their leaves, shovel the sidewalk, you know, just anything to help, right? And they were so grateful, always wanted to give us something in return, but of course my parents said ‘no, no, it’s no problem.’ So Bjarne came over one day, asked if I wanted to learn how to play _hardinger_. I’d seen him play, and it seemed cool. So every week he’d come over and teach me, while my sister would sit there doing her homework, my mom, I dunno, she’d be making dinner. And Bjarne told me when _he_ was a kid, back in some little town outside Bergen, his teacher was this great fiddler named Knut Torleivsson. I might be sayin’ that wrong, but anyway. And you know what? Bjarne could tell me Knut’s teacher, and that guy’s teacher, and _that_ guy’s teacher – he could tell me that whole line of teachers, back three hundred years.”

Claire smiles, watching the students’ eyes go wide.

“So hey, may not be written down, or fancy, or whatever,” Brad shrugs. “But it’s a cool tradition. We all learn from someone, right? Whatever your music is, we learn from someone. And I like knowing where it all came from.”

* * *

After another half hour or so, the Q&A ends. Delany, of course, is swarmed by the composers, and Claire gets a little crowd of singers crowding in to ask her for advice.

And Brad, much to his surprise, is surrounded by serious, classical string players, asking about the finer points of instrument care, fiddling technique, and repertoire.

_Who’d have thought?_

* * *

Delany stays to chat with some old friends at the school, so Brad and Claire head back to the rehearsal studio together.

Brad’s quieter than usual, Claire notices. And she doesn’t want to pry, but –

“You okay?”

“Hmm?” He looks startled. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Why?”

“You seem a little weird,” she ventures.

“What, more than usual?”

“ _Brad.”_

He seems to see that she’s not sidetracked. “That ain’t my world,” he shrugs. “I’m not this fancy, brainy classical musician, you know? I mean, it was fine, but I don’t really know why Delany brought me along.”

Claire stops. Stops dead in her tracks, and grabs his arm so he looks at her. “Brad, he brought you along because you’re an amazing musician.”

“Look, Claire –”

“I _mean_ it. You’re such a great player, and nothing about this opera would be the same without you, okay? I went to music school, and I can tell you for a fact, it was really, really good for those kids to meet someone like you.”

His ears are red, and even through the sheepishness, Claire can see how pleased he is.

“Thanks.”

She bumps his arm. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

“I won’t. Fuckin’ hell, Claire.” He shakes his head. “You’re really pushy when you’re nice.”

* * *

They walk back in for rehearsal that afternoon to find Kevin at the piano, banging out “Johanna” from _Sweeney Todd,_ bobbing his head as he sings _I heeeeeeeeeeear you, Delaaaaaaaaaaany, I heeeeeeeeeear you._

* * *

Brad and Delany have been pals ever since Delany saw him play at a local folk festival several years back. Delany’s even subbed in on keys for Brad’s band a few times. He may be a little _out there_ when he starts droning on about the juxtaposition of serialism and quartal harmonies, but he’s a good guy.

They’re both busy as hell now – the price of success is time, it seems – so the moment they get a free hour, the two of them head towards whatever boujee, hipster little coffeeshop Delany’s found this week.

But their tea is pretty good, Brad discovers, so he can’t resent it too much.

They settle at a table near the window, enjoying the sunlight.

“So how’s your first opera going?” Delany asks him.

Brad shrugs. “I feel like a fuckin’ idiot most of the time, but I guess it’s fine.”

“Hey, c’mon, man. I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if you weren’t totally qualified.” Delany claps him on the back. “Different kind of music, sure. But you’re a fucking wizard on the fiddle.”

“Hey, thanks.”

Brad likes to think he’s pretty self-aware. And yeah, sometimes he feels totally out of his depth in these rehearsals, when Chris and Claire start yammering on about Puccini and Verdi and Bellini and whatever other kind of pasta they talk about.

But – and this isn’t nothing – they sure as hell never try to make him feel stupid, and no one in this whole production has ever treated him like he doesn’t belong. And that’s pretty great.

Delany stirs his coffee. “Claire’s great, isn’t she?”

Brad doesn’t normally hesitate. He talks, then thinks. But for some reason, this time, he hesitates. Some faint, quiet instinct is telling him to maybe just tone down exactly what he thinks about Claire. Not lie. Just…tell the truth a little softer.

“Yeah, she’s awesome.”

Delany pulls out his phone, seemingly oblivious to his inner quandary. “It took _forever_ to cast the lead in this thing, did I tell you? First round of auditions was a bust. But Rapo knows her manager, and he heard she was good, so he made a call and convinced them to send her in. And as soon as she auditioned, it was like, _bam_. We knew right away.”

He flicks through youtube and pulls up a video, handing his phone over to Brad. “This is the same thing she sang for her audition for us,” Delany explains. “After one phrase, I knew she was the one.”

The title is _Orchestre symphonique de Québèc – The Trees on the Mountains_ , _Claire Saffitz_. The video is a little fuzzy, but it’s very clearly Claire. And it must be a rehearsal, because she and the orchestra behind her are all dressed casually, in the middle of some big, fancy, gold-and-white concert hall.

It starts with harp, slow and steady, very simple, and then Claire glances back at the conductor, smooths the page on the music stand beside her, and starts to sing.

_The trees on the mountains are cold and bare;  
the summer just vanished and left them there,  
like a false-hearted lover, just like my own  
who made me love him, then left me alone_

Even the static, limited capacity of the phone’s speakers can’t hide the pure, lilting beauty. Her voice soars, sweet and clear and pure silver, and the soft, wistful _sorrow_ is just too much for him.

Brad’s concept of opera (other than Delany’s work, anyway) is mostly just what he’s seen in _Looney Tunes_ , but this – this is different. It sounds like a folk song.

It’s the saddest, loveliest thing he’s ever heard in his life.

The video ends, and he blinks for a moment before looking up at Delany. “ _Whoa_.”

“I know, right?” Delany shakes his head. “It was incredible.”

* * *

Brad watches the video again that night.

Claire has other videos on youtube. He watches a few, and they’re all stellar, but he keeps coming back to the one Delany showed him. He can’t explain it, but there’s something about the music, that haunting, plaintive melody, clear and sweet as a lark. She could be standing on a mountain, deep in the Appalachian forest, he thinks. Wind in her hair, clear blue sky above, nothing but sun and shadow and rustling leaves and the gurgling waters.

He watches it one more time, and he finally makes himself turn away. Because he’s not here to obsess. He’s here to do his job. And there’s no way – no _possible_ way – someone this brilliant and talented and ambitious is even remotely interested in a big scruffy woodworking guy who plays a weird fiddle with too many strings.

(Is there?)

* * *

Claire ducks through the narrow hallways. Gaby’s calling her in for _another_ fitting.

She only has two costumes for the entire production, but apparently Gaby intends to work magic on her tiny little shoestring budget, because she refuses to let even a single seam go without checking and re-checking and re-re-checking the fit.

As a result, Claire’s in the costume room what seems like every day now, getting poked and prodded.

The door’s open, so she ducks inside, looking around for the costume designer. “Gaby? Gaby, are – _oh_.”

Claire stops short, staring up at Brad, who’s standing in the fitting station. He’s facing the mirror, buttoning the trousers Gaby’s made for him, the shirt draped over the sewing table nearby.

She takes a deep breath.

( _Arms._ )

“Claire?”

She flinches, dragging her eyes away from his broad, muscular shoulders, the dusting of hair across his chest. “I, uh. Sorry. Gaby called me in.”

“She went out to get scissors. Said she’d be right back.”

“Sorry,” she murmurs again.

Brad just shrugs, his eyes never leaving hers. “No harm done.”

She finally tears her eyes away and ducks back into the hallway, her cheeks burning, her mouth dry.

( _That’s_ a visual image she won’t be forgetting anytime soon.)

* * *

When Rapo unveils the poster for the production, Brad’s heart does this strange, stumbling thing, knocking against his ribcage in an uneven, shuddering rhythm.

Claire’s face is soft and open, her wide, dark eyes gleaming. The poster is beautifully designed, simple and clean, and Brad barely registers his own silhouette in the background, because Claire’s delicate face and those huge, expressive eyes just absolutely knock him over.

Rapo and Delany chat animatedly about what great graphic design work, something about color gradients and the golden ratio hidden in it, blah blah blah, but Brad doesn’t care about any of that.

He does, however, save a picture of it on his phone. And then, after a moment’s thought, sets it as his background.

* * *

When they walk in for afternoon rehearsal, Kevin’s already at the piano, looking off wistfully in the distance as he plays “It’s Not That Easy Bein’ Green.”

When he starts singing, though, he gets two lines into his best Kermit impression before Chris walks over, sets a hand on his shoulder, and kindly tells him that if he doesn’t stop, someone will murder him.

* * *

It’s just another afternoon, the end of another rehearsal. Claire’s tired – everyone’s tired – but it’s been going well, Delany’s in great spirits, Rapo’s looking pleased, and even Chris, the world’s most analytical music director, actually looked up from his music and used the word _good_ , which seems like a minor miracle.

Kevin’s serenading everyone with a pensive rendition of the Gummibears theme song as Claire pulls on her jacket, tucking her things in her bag. Brad wanders over, fiddle case on his back.

“Hey, good work today, Claire.” He offers her a soft half-smile. “Sounded awesome, as usual.”

“Thanks. You, too.” Brad’s so _easy_ to work with. She’s never met a musician who rolls with things so quickly, learns so fast, plays so well with so little ego.

Brad’s the _best_.

“Y’know, if you’re interested, me and a couple buddies, we get together every once in a while and just mess around. Nothing fancy, just a little folk band,” he explains. “It’s good times. We’re doin’ a jam session tonight over in Brooklyn.”

“That sounds cool.” It sounds like _him_. It’s the most Brad thing she can imagine.

“You, uh, you wanna come?”

Claire _is_ a little tired. But he looks so hopeful that she can’t bring herself to turn him down. “Sure.”

His answering smile is as bright as the sun. “Great! Oh, man, Claire, you’re gonna _love_ it.”

* * *

Claire walks into the Music Factory to find it comfortably busy, buzzing with easy noise. It’s an old-style pub; even the interior features gleaming old polished wood surfaces, a long, sturdy bar, and the soft golden gleam of the old globe light fixtures.

She takes a deep breath, not sure exactly what she’s looking for, but once she sees the stage, she relaxes. Sure enough, Brad’s up there with a few other guys, laughing, chatting, setting up guitars and a few fiddles and some drums. Brad’s also got a mandolin – that’s a mandolin, right? – and his laugh is loud, booming, audible even halfway across the bar.

As soon as he catches sight of her, though, he stops. His whole face lights up, and he waves, totally ignoring the confused looks from his friends.

She waves back, feeling her cheeks getting hot, and slides into a chair at the bar near the stage. She’s perfectly content to hang back and watch, just let him do his thing, but he surprises her: he sets down the mandolin, turns away from the stage and comes right over to her, hands in his pockets. “Heya, Claire! I’m really glad you came.”

His grin is infectious. “Hi.”

“You, ah, here by yourself? Didn’t bring anybody?” She nods. “Well, ain’t gonna let you just waste away over here all alone. Hey, Carla? Carla!”

The woman behind the bar leans over. “What’s up, Leone?”

“Carla, this is my friend Claire Saffitz. Claire, this is Carla Music. She owns the place.”

Claire stares at the other woman for a moment before comprehension dawns. _Ohhhh._ “So that’s why it’s called the Music Factory?”

“You got it,” Carla chuckles. “So _you’re_ the famous Claire we’ve heard so much about? Nice to finally meet you.”

“‘Finally?’” Claire echoes, looking back at Brad. “The ‘famous’ Claire?”

“Well, y’know.” He shrugs, his ears going red, and it’s just intensely precious. “Told Carla I was doin’ this big fancy opera with this big opera star –”

“Oh, no, _Brad_ –”

“- but really, c’mon, you’re basically famous,” he finishes.  
  
She’s not famous. Not even a little bit. But Brad’s grinning at her, and Carla, who seems truly delightful, is just watching them with affectionate amusement. Like she understands Brad.

“Well, it’s lovely to meet Brad’s co-star.” Carla leans on her wrists. “Brad, you go finish setting up. I’ll make sure your co-star doesn’t get lost.”

“Thanks, Carla. You’re the best.”

Carla waves a towel at him, and Brad heads back to the stage. “Well, what can I get you, Claire Saffitz?”

“Uh – gin and tonic, please. And could I get a water, too?”

“Coming right up.”

Carla hands her the water right away and gets to work on the drink. Claire squeezes the lemon wedge into her glass, setting it carefully on a napkin. “So has this band been playing here a while?”

“Oh, yeah. Couple years now, I guess?” Carla pauses for a moment to sort through bottles. “Ah, there we go. Yeah, Brad did some renovation on the place when I took over, and he mentioned he had a band, so I started booking them. They’re pretty good, and they bring in a decent crowd.”

“He, um – he never said what the band’s called.”

Carla laughs at that, long and hearty. “They – well, the short answer is, they don’t have a name.”

The – the short answer?

“What’s the long answer?”

“They couldn’t decide on one,” Carla explains, her eyes sparkling. “Every week when I’d call to see about their schedule, Brad would tell me a completely different name. I told him to just pick something and stick with it, you know? And then he tried to tell me the band was called Pant Dick.”

Claire had just taken a sip of water; she promptly spits it right back into her glass.

“Oh, sorry, hon.” Carla grabs a washcloth and wipes down the stray droplets on the counter. “There you go.”

Claire wipes her mouth. “What did you do?”

“I told him no band called Pant Dick is ever playing the Music Factory,” Carla tells her with a grin, setting the gin and tonic in front of Claire. “So now they’re back to not really having a name.”

* * *

Brad’s nameless band of pals is, it turns out, pretty great.

They cycle through a variety of music, everything from old Gordon Lightfoot and Michael Martin Murphey tunes, to a handful of old hits by the Eagles and Springsteen and John Denver, to a rollicking rendition of “Rocky Road to Dublin.” The crowd in the bar seems to be regulars, and they clap and cheer and heckle when Brad tries to talk on the microphone.

The band finishes a set and takes a break, and as they sit back and relax, Brad waves for Claire to come over closer.

She does, tucking her hair behind her ear, folding her arms. “You guys are great.”

“Hey, thanks.” He grins, lifting a hand to gesture at his bandmates. “Claire, this is Matty, Chuck, that’s Vinny over on drums, and that’s Alex. Lau, not Delany. Different Alex. Guys, guys, this is Claire. That singer I was tellin’ you about.”

“Oh, so _you’re_ Claire?” One of them – Matty, was it? – grins at her, waving over his guitar. “Well, well. Startin’ to think Brad was making you up.”

“Hey, fuck off, Matty.” Brad scowls. “Claire’s way classier than us.”

Claire fixes him with a skeptical look. “Carla told me what you tried to name the band.”

Brad laughs at that, his eyes crinkling, his grin toothy and open. “ _Well_. That’s just a whole different topic, Claire.”

Vinny, who was trapped behind a nest of drums and random auxiliary percussion, now comes out to shake her hand. “We’ve heard a lot about you. Nice to finally meet you in person.”

“Claire’s the best singer I ever met,” Brad insists. “Fuckin’ _incredible_ voice.”

She can feel herself blushing furiously, despite her best efforts. How is it possible? His blunt, inelegant compliments make her heart beat faster than any masterclass guru or musical director ever has.

“Well, hell, Brad, she’s such a good singer, why don’t she come and sing something?” Matty turns to Claire. “C’mon up! Come sing with us! Gotta be a song or two we all know.”

She freezes, but everyone in the band latches onto the idea with gusto, and next thing she knows, Brad’s reaching a hand out to pull her up the step onto the stage, Matty’s setting out an extra stool near a microphone for her, and suddenly she’s in the middle of this little folk band, trying to remember any song, at all.

“So what’s your song?” Matty leans over his guitar. “Anything, really. Folk, rock, country, whatever. Long as we can pick out some chords for you.”

Claire racks her brain, trying to remember anything that isn’t Alex Delany’s opera that she’s been fervently studying for so long now. _Batti batti_? No. _Bel piacere?_ Ick. For some reason _Caro mio ben_ flashes through her mind, and she groans internally. Some things just never die.

But then she remembers hearing other music, music her parents listened to when she was little. And there was one song – what is it? It’s simple, just acoustic guitar and maybe bass, she thinks –

She hums softly, screwing up her face as she tries to recapture the memory. _If you miss the train I’m on_ …

 _“If you miss the train I’m on_ ,” she murmurs, following the line in whatever key it is, “ _you’ll know that I am gone…”_

Brad’s eyes light up, and he finishes the line for her in a husky, untutored baritone. “ _You can hear the whistle blow, a hundred miles_ …”

Matty grins. “Peter Paul and Mary, right?”

There’s absolutely nothing careful or precise or studied about it; the guys quickly mutter back and forth about chords and which phrase ends which way and all just kind of shrug and come to a consensus, and then they’re nodding to her and Brad tells her, “Okay, Claire. Givin’ you a few bars, and then you take it away, yeah?”

He settles the mandolin against his knee, checks the strings briefly, and starts. Claire relaxes. She knows these chords. They’re simple. They make sense. Everything, every song, can be broken down into its functional parts, stored in the brain, then rebuilt. It’s the logic of music theory, the blueprint underneath the decoration that explains not just how music _sounds_ , but how it _behaves_.

(Tonic, minor six, minor two with a minor seventh, pre-dominant four…)

She takes a breath.

“ _If you miss the train I’m on, you’ll know that I am gone, you can hear the whistle blow, a hundred miles…_ ”

* * *

He’s never heard her sing like _this_.

And as glorious as she sings in her world – that clear, rich, powerful, silvery tone that fills up the hall like pure light – now she’s in _his_ world. And it’s so gentle and wistful, so simple, that Brad almost forgets to play, fumbling between E minor and G before he gets his shit together and keeps going.

He finally remembers to join in, add simple harmony, even though Claire Saffitz is obviously on an entirely different level of singing. But she beams at him, even as she keeps going, and their voices twine together, easy as anything.

He doesn’t even have words for it.

The song finally ends, and her eyes meet his for just a moment before the spell is broken.

The crowd cheers, Claire blushes, Matty and Vinny whistle in praise, and Brad realizes, with complete and utter clarity, that he’s absolutely, head-over-heels fallen for this woman, and there’s no way out.

He gives her a hand to step down from the stage. Her hand is soft and warm and _small_ in his, as delicate as her smile.

* * *

When the nameless band plays their last song (a surprisingly jaunty tune about Lizzie Borden) and starts packing away their equipment, Claire realizes she really should be getting back to her apartment. It’s later than she’d realized.

Carla waves goodbye, tells her to come back again. “You’re delightful, Claire Saffitz. Come back and sing with them anytime.”

* * *

Brad tells her he’ll walk her to the train. The stop isn’t even two blocks away, but he promises her that he’s devoted to her safety.

She doesn’t mind, though. Claire’s always been an introvert, but somehow, she never gets tired of Brad’s company. He’s the absolute polar opposite of her: tall and broad, constantly cheerful, his eyes always trained on the bright side of everything. And the moment he walks into rehearsal, everything is better.

He falls in step beside her, fiddle case on his back, mandolin case hanging from one shoulder. She’d offered to help carry one of them, but he’d assured her that he was there to carry stuff, she was the talent, and he could handle it.

“Hey, thanks for coming out tonight.” His voice is softer than usual, warm and utterly sincere. “I’m glad you were here.”

“It was fun.” She nudges him with her shoulder. She feels so _soft_ right now, happy and tired and dangerously honest, and it feels like she could just lean into him and never stop. “You guys are good.”

“ _You_ were amazing, Claire, oh my god, that song was just –” he shakes his head – “ _so_ amazing.”

“It was okay?”

“ _Okay?_ ” Brad stares at her, incredulous. “Claire, it was fucking incredible. God, is there anything you can’t do?”

He’s just so _open_ , so generous, and she’s not used to this, to this plain adoration he’s not even trying to hide.

(And the way he looks at her sometimes…)

Claire flushes hotly, cursing her luck for having such pale skin that she knows it’s immediately obvious. “Thanks for – for making me.”

She tugs her jacket closer against the chilly night breeze, turning to face him. Her train stop is up ahead, not far, and his is the other direction. The night is over. They should part.

Shouldn’t they?

But the way he’s looking at her right now – it’s so direct, so clear and unabashedly adoring that it makes her catch her breath.

“Brad?”

He reaches up, brushes a strand of her hair behind her ear with a gentle, reverent hand. “Yeah, Claire?”

Claire doesn’t know what to say. It feels quiet. So quiet, so easy, and it’s no more than a breath and then he’s kissing her and everything else just…stops.

She curls her fingers in his jacket, and he cups her face with those big hands, those hands she’s spent so much time staring at, because they’re so talented and nimble and _strong_ , and everything else just dissolves outside the circle of the streetlight around them.

He finally pulls away from her mouth and she whimpers a little at the loss, feeling the sudden tension that races through him, the way it makes his hand tighten on her waist. He brushes his thumb over the swell of her bottom lip, and she can _feel_ the desire, taut and thrumming under his skin as clearly as it is under hers.

It’s on the tip of her tongue to whisper in his ear – _come back to my place?_ – and Claire takes a deep breath, trying to get her bearings back. Kissing Brad is dizzying.

But instead, he leans in, brushes a soft kiss to her forehead.

“G’night, Claire.”

* * *

He waves as her train pulls out, and Claire sits back in her seat, taking a deep breath, pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks.

 _Oh_.

* * *

_(act II)  
_

When Claire hops on the subway to get to rehearsal the next day, she’s a bundle of nerves.

She’s fully aware that she overthinks things. Most things. Well. Pretty much everything, if she’s being honest.

But she is a professional, and she is an adult, and just because she kissed Brad Leone last night and was about three seconds away from taking him home for the night doesn’t mean she can’t do her job. Claire’s not in the habit of getting romantically involved in the middle of a production. She works hard; romantic relationships complicate things, and she wants to succeed or fail based on her work and nothing else.

 _Brad_ complicates things.

(They haven’t talked about it, she doesn’t know how to feel, and everything’s a mess. It’s the end of Act I in _Marriage of Figaro_. All she needs is someone diving out a window and breaking a pot of geraniums.)

She twists her hands in her lap. It’s not…it’s not a problem, is it? Claire’s very private. Brad is very not. What if he tries to kiss her in front of everyone? She never _actually_ told him to keep it to himself. What if he’s told someone? What if he says something in that absurdly loud voice of his that literally everyone in the studios can hear?

By the time she gets to her stop and hurries up the steps to the street, Claire’s heart is pounding somewhere north of her sternum, and it’s not from the exertion.

When she walks in, at least everything looks normal. Chris is frowning at his music. Adam is doing nothing. Delany’s combing his mustache with the little comb he keeps in his shirt pocket. Kevin’s at the piano playing “Cell Block Tango,” singing _Claire…Brad…Chris…Gaby…Rapopoooort…Alex_.

And Brad’s over near the windows, rosining his bow, his case open beside him.

Their eyes meet, her face goes hot, and she’s about to cross the room, say something to him, do _something_ , but before she can do much more than blink, Delany appears. “Hey, Claire!”

“Hi, Alex.”

“Hey, can I just quick run something by you –”

Delany drags her over to the piano to ask her about her last aria, and he’s there, and _Kevin’s_ there, and Adam’s hovering nearby, and then Chris joins them and there are a million questions she has to answer and then suddenly it’s time for rehearsal to start and Brad’s standing next to her and _I guess we don’t get to talk about it_.

He clears his throat. “Hey, Claire.”

“Hi.”

Claire holds her breath, but he just smiles at her the way he always does – simple, unaffected, his eyes soft – and tucks the instrument under his chin, plucking the strings one more time before he picks up his bow to start the opening solo.

* * *

And it’s _fine_.

The run-through is the cleanest it’s been. Even Chris seems satisfied, Adam’s looking less constipated, and Delany looks positively delighted.

By the time Chris calls for a break and starts jotting down notes to compare with Delany, Claire’s got her breath under her, and she knows, with absolute, pristine clarity: _it’s going to be fine_.

Brad’s standing near the piano, deep in conversation with Kevin about something. She hovers nearby, waiting somewhat patiently, until Brad turns and sees her. She can see the look that flits over his face – it’s cautious.

He finishes talking to Kevin and pats his shoulder, and turns to her. “Hi, Claire.”

“Can we talk?”

“I, uh – sure, Claire. Yeah.”

She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. There are people all around. She’s feeling unsettled again. “Uh – not here?”

He shrugs. “If you want.”

He follows her out of the rehearsal hall, and Claire pauses for a moment, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Here.”

She leads him into the costume closet; Gaby’s done for the day, and the storage closet next to the fitting room is as private as anywhere they’re going to find on short notice.

Claire flicks on the light as Brad shuts the door behind them, and when he turns to face her, the words just desert her for a moment, because he looks – _sad?_

Why –

And suddenly, she understands – he’s bracing himself for what he thinks is going to be _I know we kissed but I’m not interested in going any further with this and we should probably stay away from each other_.

She folds her arms, and she’s about to speak, when Brad sighs. “Look. I, uh – I didn’t want it to be weird, okay? If you don’t want –”

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out. “I’m sorry for being weird about it this morning.”

“You weren’t –”

“And I’m sorry for assuming it was going to be weird, and I don’t like my personal life being public –”

“Claire –”

“But I really like you, and I’m not sorry for kissing you, and – and –”

Claire’s run out of things to say.

So she reaches up, pulling him down, stretching up on her toes, and it’s just a breath, and then she’s kissing him and it’s _electric_.

He kisses her back without hesitating, and Claire doesn’t know how she went twelve hours without kissing him, because kissing Brad is utterly addictive.

Heat floods her body, lighting up her skin, everything hyperaware. He’s _everywhere_ somehow, his hands on her and his mouth hot on hers and she feels giddy and trembling and alive. His arms are so strong around her, so sure and sturdy, and she just wants him closer _,_ wants his body pressed against hers, wants him to –

Claire stumbles back, yelping in surprise as she finds herself half-drowned in a sea of satin and cut velvet and tulle and poofy crinolines.

She finally dissolves into giggles, and Brad’s laughing as he grabs her hands to pull her up out of the mess of costumes they’ve knocked down.

“Gaby’s gonna kill us,” she groans. “If she finds out we messed up her costume closet –”

“We’ll just hang ‘em back up, c’mon,” Brad says, gathering up an armful of dresses. “She’ll never even know.”

* * *

He steals one more kiss before they duck back into rehearsal, and Claire’s not entirely used to this feeling: she feels blissfully, deliriously _happy_.

* * *

Brad insists on taking her to dinner that night. A proper dinner, at a nice place.

“I’m a _gentleman_ , Claire,” he explains to her very seriously when he shows up at her place in nice pants and dress shoes and a shirt that he must have _ironed_ and no hat, which is a definite first. “Sorry I didn’t bring flowers. I’ll do that next time.”

She just laughs, pulling the door shut behind her and reaching for his arm. “Okay, Mr. Leone. _Proper_ dinner it is.”

* * *

To her credit, she makes it all the way through dinner, through the walk back to her place, before Claire bites her lip and looks up through her lashes and asks if Brad’s interested in coming in for some _dessert_.

* * *

_  
(entr’acte)  
_

* * *

_(act III)  
_

He slips out of her bed early the next morning.

Claire groans, propping herself on one elbow to look at the clock. “ _Brad_. It’s so early.”

“Sorry, babe. I gotta get home, gotta change, gotta grab my instrument.” He tugs on his pants, buttoning his shirt. “But I’ll see you at the studio, yeah?”

“Fine.”

Brad grabs his shoes and leans over to kiss her. “C’mon, one more for the road?”

She whines but obliges, kissing him long and slow, and she’s half a moment away from just pulling him right back into bed and taking those clothes off him (again), but he stands up, out of kissing range. “See ya soon, okay?”

“Mmm. Okay.”

She dozes off a few minutes later, and wakes up to his text message: _hey babe i miss you already_

Claire huffs. _I’ll see you in like an hour!!_

_still_

* * *

Later, Claire walks in to find the rehearsal hall quiet, everyone looking around furtively.

She immediately reaches for her collar, but makes herself stop. _You’re being paranoid_.

(There’s no way anyone knows why she’s wearing a turtleneck today.)

Delany’s standing by the window, fiddling with his shirt buttons. “Hey, Claire, question. Should I pop an extra button here?”

“I don’t care.” She shrugs. “Why’s everyone so quiet?”

“Gaby says someone went in and messed up the costume closet.” Delany winces. “She’s on the warpath.”

* * *

Halfway through the morning, Claire’s sitting on one side of the rehearsal studio, paging aimlessly through her music, when she suddenly realizes what Kevin’s been playing for the past few minutes: “When I Fall In Love.”

She looks up to find Kevin watching her pointedly, grinning, and she knows, without a doubt: he _knows_.

He stops, pulls his hands from the keys, and comes over to sit beside her, flopping in a chair. “Hey, Claire.”

“How’d you know?”

He laughs. “I’m an accompanist. I know everything.” She fixes him with a look, and he shrugs. “You’ve been staring at him all morning. And he’s been staring at you. I’m not an idiot, Claire.”

She blushes furiously. “Right.” So much for a private life.

“Hey, Claire.” Kevin nudges her shoulder. “Relax, okay? I’m happy for you. You’re both great.”

He goes back to the piano, and he must be in a Billy Joel mood, because she can hear him singing softly to himself, “ _I’m in a Kevin state of mind…”_

* * *

_(act IV)  
_

With opening night coming up soon, everything’s a flurry of activity. Gaby’s running last-minute fittings at any opportunity, so the minute Claire gets comfortable in a chair, she gets dragged over to the costume room. Adam’s standing near the door talking to someone, and as Gaby walks her out, Claire realizes, with a jolt, that it’s Priya Krishna. Priya writes for _Classical Singer_.

People actually read _Classical Singer._

It’s real.

* * *

“Hold _still_ ,” Gaby tells her for the fourth time, tugging at the hem of her skirt. “I’m almost done.”

“Sorry.”

Claire bites her lip, blowing a strand of hair out of her face, counting the seconds. She feels _antsy_. For once, she thinks, this must be what Brad feels like. She just can’t stand still.

There’s a tap at the door. Gaby looks over Claire quickly – she’s fully dressed – and looks up. “Come in!”

The door cracks open, and Adam Rapoport leans in. “Hi, Claire – reporter’s here. She’s doing other interviews and watching rehearsal today, and wants to know if you can do a longer interview this afternoon.”

“Uh – sure.”

“Great, great. She’s talking to Brad right now. The more gossip we can drum up, the better ticket sales will be.” Adam taps the doorframe absently. “Have a good rehearsal today. This article’s a big deal, so let’s make sure she’s impressed. This could really help the production.”

He vanishes down the hallway, and Gaby snorts, muttering something under her breath. Claire looks down. “What was that?”

“Adam.” Gaby shakes her head, pulling another pin out of her mouth. “What a buffoon. You’re _always_ good. What does he do? Just talk, talk talk talk. Have you ever heard him sing a note?”

Claire blinks. “…no.”

Gaby grins. “There’s a reason for that.”

* * *

Rehearsal is relatively normal: Claire sings, Brad plays, everyone else sings, Kevin plays piano, and Chris runs everything with an iron fist.

At a break, Claire joins Priya in a little rehearsal room off the main hall. Priya has chairs pulled up, the window’s letting in pleasant, airy light, and there’s a little camera set up. “Nothing fancy,” she assures Claire. “But we’ll use clips for the online article, and this way we have a full transcript, too. Saves me the trouble of taking notes.”

“Great.” Claire takes a deep breath. _Ignore the camera. Just ignore it._

“Okay. So.” Priya settles in her chair across from Claire and smiles at her. “This is such a cool production. Tell me about your experience.”

As it turns out, the interview’s a lot easier than Claire thought it would be.

Priya’s friendly and bubbly and easy to talk to. Claire finds herself opening up about her background and her education, and they discover they both have a profound love of musical theater (the cheesier, the better).

“Wait, seriously.” Claire blinks. “ _Starlight Express?”_

“I swear,” Priya says through a fit of giggles. “It was _amazing_. And halfway through, the guy who played Rusty got the hiccups, right there onstage. But I guess his understudy wasn’t there, because he just _kept going_. And then he slipped on his skates and faceplanted, right in the middle of the stage. I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe.”

* * *

After chatting more about the opera and Claire’s upcoming work for the year, Priya scans her list of questions. “I think we’ve covered anything, to be honest.”

“Oh. Wow.” That was…a lot easier than Claire thought it would be.

“Well, thank you so much for talking with me!” Priya beams. “I’m _so_ excited to see this opera. And I had a great time talking to Brad. He’s such an interesting person, isn’t he?”

Claire freezes for a moment, but shakes it off. “He – yeah, he’s one of a kind.”

“And he had some very nice things to say about you.”

Claire tells herself to stop blushing. “Really?”

“You want to see?”

Priya fiddles with the camera, plugging it into the laptop, and pulls up the video.

The camera’s focused on Brad; Priya’s voice comes from off-screen. “ _So you’re a folk-trained musician, and now you’re part of this little opera. What’s that been like for you?”_

Brad grins. “ _It’s fantastic. Really, it’s – it’s just great. I couldn’t ask for a better project to be part of.”_

There’s a shuffle, which sounds like Priya paging through notes. “ _Now, you’re working with Claire Saffitz, who’s very much a classical soprano. How have you found her?”_

Claire holds her breath.

Brad, though, doesn’t blink, doesn’t hesitate. He just smiles, his face soft. “ _She’s probably the most talented person I’ve ever worked with. But she’s so humble, totally down-to-earth, great sense of humor. She’s the absolute best.”_

The interview probably goes on for a while, but Priya turns it off, and Claire doesn’t really need to hear more, does she?

* * *

Once the interview’s over, Claire can’t help but find Brad and drag him out into the hallway. “Priya showed me your video. What you said. About me.”

There’s a beat, and he shakes his head. “Claire–”

“Brad, that’s – it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me.”

“No, it’s not, Claire.” She stares at him, not comprehending, but then his face softens. “It’s just the truth.”

This is his real smile, she realizes. It’s quiet, smaller, less bold than the face he keeps on for other people.

This is for no one but her.

She licks her lips nervously, and she doesn’t miss the way his gaze flicks to her mouth. “You know, if you keep being this sweet –”

He grins at that. “Whatcha gonna do about it, Saffitz?”

She has to grab a handful of his shirt to pull him down where she can kiss him again, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

* * *

_(epilogue)  
_

On opening night, the curtain falls, the audience roars, and the entire cast is dragged out for three more bows.

* * *

The Band Formerly Known As Pant Dick finally settles on a name: Claire Saffitz and the Good Time Girls.

* * *

A month after _Thumbelina_ closes its first run, Alex Delany finishes writing their wedding song.

(They’re not engaged yet, but, come on. There’s obvious, and then there’s _obvious_.)


End file.
